


There are two theories when it comes to women, none of them work

by sahdah



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Cowboy AU, F/M, Horse Bites, Lodestar AU, Mild Blood, southern euphemisms, warnings: Wes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:53:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27981849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sahdah/pseuds/sahdah
Summary: Turns out they hired him mid-winter without the boss’s daughter's knowledge.
Relationships: Wes Evans/Liz Thompson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	There are two theories when it comes to women, none of them work

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sleepmarshes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sleepmarshes/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Lodestar](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11787630) by [Sleepmarshes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sleepmarshes/pseuds/Sleepmarshes). 



> I couldn't ever get Soul's youtube roping run of 6.11 out of my head. This is based on Lodestar by Sleepmarshes there are links, you should read it. Wrote it a while back. One of the better things I got to do in 2020 was go to a rodeo for research reasons. Any who, please enjoy.

* * *

It's mid summer and the sun is on the downward arc across the sky as Soul turns down the drive. The heat waves distort the horizon and it’s been a day, although the chores don’t care none about that. 

It felt like sand in his mouth reaching out to the Watkin’s for a place to board his new mare. Family friends that had been happy to reach a month to month agreement and were fine if he lived out of his truck. 

He had to hand it to Pat-- the mare is something special. 

“I’m tellin’ ya, she’s gonna be a fine roping horse. I just know it.” The girl has a nose for these type things, so he went for it. 

Unwilling to endebt himself even further to the family-- he sold his pop up camper in order to pay for the blue roan. The odd end jobs he’s been keeping are enough to pay the bills so far, and Wes keeps insisting he can stay in town with him. But city livin’ is suffocating and Soul’s had enough of his brother’s _domestic_ life. ‘Sides, he needs to spend what time he can with Harley, and the odd hours ain't helping. 

Late July is hotter than hell’s jalapeno patch, and the flies are just as evil. There’s no point to running the trucks' AC these days because it makes the transition to his borrowed camper top, truck bed, living situation all the more unbearable. The first night he nearly took off his skin it was so nasty.

The only thing more persistent than the flies is Pat asking him to check out Angel’s End, but if there’s one thing he’s learned being ‘round horses all his life-- it’s when he’s not wanted. His fingers tap out a beat on the steering wheel, he knows he’s not gonna be able to keep this up come winter. There’s still some time though, and he’s gotta get a better routine for Harley.

She’s at the fence regarding him with bright eyes, ears twitching against the niggling flies.

“Hey, pretty lady,” he murmurs walking up to the fence. She snorts, shaking her mane disdainfully. “Long day for you too?”

“Gawd, took you long enough.” Soul turns to the barn where Pat exits brushing her hands off on her jeans. “You ‘specting her to throw the rope herself?” 

Speaking of gettin’ up someone’s nose, his face breaks into a lopsided grin at the young blonde’s antics. “‘Spect things went well today?”

Pat’s face lights up. “Soul, she’s really gonna be somethin’.” 

Harley snorts and stalks away on impossibly long legs to enter the stable. Soul follows and Pat comes after giving him a full report. “She’s responding well to the blanket and saddle. Not super fond of the noseband, but for roping it’s kinda necessary-- I gave her a talkin’ to.” 

He ducks his head as he walks into the barn to grab his tack. Depending on the mare's mood, he’ll see what he has to work with, if all goes well, he might be able to run a few circuits in the fall. It’d be nice not to survive off ramen and jerky longer than necessary. 

Soul stares at the halter in his locker space, a bright orange and gives Pat a calculating look. “What?” she says, side eyeing it with a bashful smile, “I think it suits her.” 

He grunts some form of affirmation before turning to the mare to let her examine it for herself. “This suit you?” 

Harley sniffs and gives a non committal toss of the head, she smells horsey and of sweet alfalfa, familiar and homey. Soul rubs her velvety nose and Pat gives her a treat. “Stop that, you’ll spoil her rotten.” 

The girl giggles. “Someone’s gotta.” 

Ignoring that comment, he opens the stall door to continue rubbing the mare down. “Those flies are being none too kind,” he comments, making a note to pick up Permethrin the next time he’s at the Tractor Supply avoiding the agitated tail switches from his horse. She holds still as he slips the halter over her head and then leads her out to the hitching posts. 

She’s easy to talk to and the rest of the world fades from his awareness as he tells her his plans for the evening while he runs the blanket from shoulder to flank, and then he repeats the process with the saddle. 

It’s quiet in the barn, save for the soft sounds of the other horses that are boarding there. Most of their owners have already been by to feed and water. 

From one of the shelves above the work bench, the barn cat eyes him lazily. A little she-demon who took a shining to Soul the other night on account that she invited herself into the camper without so much as a ‘how do you do’ and then proceeded to bite his toes only this morning. The collar states her name is Blair, but she’s a witch, Soul knows it. She knows it, if the lazy switching of her tail is any indication, but she gets on with Harley so he lets sleeping snakes lie. And finishes by securing the bridle and noseband.

Only then does he remove the halter replacing it on its hook. He leads her out to the training corral. Pat’s sitting on the top rail phone in hand, sour look on her face. Soul thinks, it’s a shame Wes wasn’t a girl, a sister would have been better but then he recalls Pat’s own sister and wonders why the universe does this to younger siblings. 

The look on her face brightens, “Ready to get started?” she asks. 

He dips his head but directs his words at Harley, “Alright, pretty girl, lets see how you do with the rope.” She’s walking and the reins are in his left hand with a portion of the coil in his fingers, in his right he holds a loop as they walk around. 

Soul holds out the rope and Harley steadfastly ignores it. _Well alright._ He chokes up a little on the reins to test how goosey she’ll be if he runs the loop along her flank. Chuckles when she giddy ups, but murmurs soothingly that he’s gonna do it again. This time she relaxes and on the third try ignores it. He can almost feel the excitement radiating from Pat’s direction. 

They take it slow. Forty minutes later he’s pleased that she’s less than impressed by the swing of the loop around her head. She trots easily, stops, and backs up without complaint. Seemingly content, he thinks he should make some attempt to throw the rope, but the light is waning. 

“You ready?” he calls over his shoulder towards the fence. 

“Yeah, yeah. Just the regular ol’ stop and tug?” Pat asks. 

“Yeah,” he agrees. 

“Alright, Harley, gonna throw this. Pat’s gon catch it, you keep doing you.” She snorts softly. “Okay, then.” He clicks his tongue urging her forward. 

All in all, it goes well. He throws the loop, applying pressure to the swell after securing the rope around the horn, Pat catches the rope and applies resistance. Harley steps away keeping the rope taut, and then stops when Pat drops her weight. 

Twilight has run its course, but Soul still wants to try dismounting as Harley steps backwards. It goes smoothly, until he runs his hands back up the rope walking back to her. It happens in the blink of an eye, Harley spooks as he's readying a hand to soothe her, she turns her head suddenly and clamps down. Surprise and shock color his tone-- “Sonuva--” Soul bites back the rest of the words and shakes off the burning sensation of horse teeth. _The hell was that about?!_ He wonders after he gets back on the saddle, thumb throbbing uncomfortably, the inside of his glove feeling warm sticky. 

It’s near dark, and the barn light spills out onto the gravel as they make their way back. 

“Harley,” Pat says neutrally, “What was that about, you silly ol' goose?” 

He shakes his head, hair sweat soaked and sticking up in wild tufts. 

“Soul--” The girl hands him a clean bandana-- “That looks deep, I think you’re gonna need stitches. Ya know, it might not be a bad idea to wear a bandana, I think yore hair spooked her.” 

Blood is seeping through the torn leather of his roping gloves. Well shit. “Yeah, I think you might be right.” Unconsciously he rubs at his chest at least, it’s better than the gash Ragnarok gave him, he’ll give Harley that. Still, he pats her reassuringly after he ties off the bandana over the seeping skin. “It’s alright, big girl, you didn’t do anything wrong.” 

“Lawrd, don’t flatter her or she’ll develop a taste for yer blood.” Pat nuzzles the face. “Ya big ol’ Soul eater.” 

He stares at the young horse wrangler and shakes his head. They’re just finishing up when the light beams of a vehicle cut through the summer darkness. 

“Pat!?” Elizabeth’s strong alto cuts through the darkness. “Patricia Thompson, you’d best be out here or I’mma--”

“You’re gonna what?” Pat says emerging from the barn. "I told you I was gonna be helping Soul here with his mare. Anyhow, can you drive us into the clinic?”

Before Liz can respond another voice cuts across over the top of the cab of the suburban which Soul belated realizes isn’t Liz’s car. _Awwh hell_. “No wonder I never get to see my little brother, you spend too much time with fillies.” 

Soul resists the urge to palm his face. “The hell you doing out in the boonies, Wes?”

“Assisting my girl in finding her sister, like a gentleman--” The look Liz gives his brother is enough to make him want to vomit in the nearest field. “So, who’s gotta go to the clinic?”

“Soul.” Pat sells him out, the snitch. “That hot headed mare near tore off his finger.” 

Wes draws in a breath. “Spare me,” Soul says, cutting off his older brother. “No one wants to hear your theories.”

“‘S’all right, none of them work anyhow,” he says with a good natured wink. 

“My lord, Soul, you’re bleeding through that bandana,” Liz says with a twist to the mouth. “Okay, y’all, load up. That thing’s gonna get infected.”

Soul grins extending his hand out to Liz, attempting to gross her out. “What, can’t stand the sight of blood?”

The tall blonde has a nonplussed look on her face, hands on hips, she says, “Boy, don’t you dare start with that.” 

“Alright, alright, no need to get uppity,” he says crawling into the back seat along with Pat. He thinks if Harley did have a mind to, she would probably throw the rope with her teeth. 

//

It’s dark and his heart is beating abnormally fast as he walks down to the chutes. His hands tug at the vest, something feels off but he can’t place it. 

The floor is wrong, it’s red and black checkered tile covered in a fine layer of dirt. 

His leg swings over the broad black back of the bull, and the huffing breath is wound tight with energy in the charged atmosphere. Soul looks down in horror at his bared left hand, and then in mounting anxiety at his lack of chaps-- he’s wearing a black pin-stripped suit. _Jeezus fuck--_ The bell sounds. The gate wrenches open. All he can do is hang on. The seconds tick by each one its own hellish eternity, but his thumb is throbbing and he can’t hold on. 

Time slows down and speeds up at the same time.

Something is wrong-- he’s already ridden Ragnarok-- something is very wrong!

His world is turned upside down, and for a moment he locks eyes with the deranged bull but the once sentient eyes are solid black orbs filled with madness. 

Physics is wrong, he floats a moment too long and somehow Rag jumps up, tossing head and horns, tearing into the flimsy suit jacket like it’s tissue paper. His chest and hip explode. Torn wide open. His blood is black. Soul laughs as the ground rushes up to hit him like a truck.

Soul gasps, with a violent chest shudder, clutching at his sweat soaked sheets. “Fuck me.” It comes out as a winded grunt, he can’t move. His heart is racing. Laying there, sheets askance it takes him a moment to breathe through the anxiety inducing panic. But his body feels locked in place, paralyzed by fear-- slowly he rubs his hands together. The stitches he got from Harley came out weeks ago, but the scarred skin of his chest still feels clammy. 

In fact, tonight might be the cause of his nightmare-- they’re doing their first roping event at the Austin County Fair & Rodeo, Wes’ idea of brotherly time. Groaning, Soul turns to his camper windows, already the grey is lighter than the interior of the truck bed, so probably around ass-crack-o-dawn. Whelp, there ain't no time like the present. 

He rolls over, sniffs a pile of stuff Liz was kind enough to wash but didn’t fold for him, and snags a lightly worn pair of wranglers. After pulling a tee shirt over his mop of white, he ties up his mess of hair with one of the many bandanas Pat had seen fit to gift him. 

There’s a box of strawberry pop-tarts somewhere near the vicinity of the tailgate being guarded by Blair. She takes a swipe at him-- “Stop that,” he scolds, before stuffing his feet into his boots and dusting himself off a bit. 

The pre-dawn air is a mild shade crisper than wilting lettuce. Harley snorts at him from her run. Back cracking as he stretches it, Soul rolls a shoulder before opening the foil packet and stuffing the heat baked pastry in his mouth. 

He makes his way in the semi-darkness through the barn feeding and grooming Harley before he steps away to hitch and load up the trailer. 

Wes meets him at the Buc-ee’s on the outskirts of town. 

“You smell like sunshine and roses,” he remarks when he finds Soul buttoning up and tucking in a clean shirt. He'd taken advantage of a shower while he waited. “What’s with the bandanas? Can’t handle that albino lifestyle anymore.”

“I don’t see how you can be so damn chipper this early,” Soul grunts, and Wes takes the time to mess up the bandana. “Damnit Wes, quit it. It’s for Harley, she spooks with the hair.”

It’s hard not to roll his eyes at his brother’s hootin' and hollering. “Sure it is-- maybe that’s what’s been spooking the ladies.” The eyebrows on his brother's smug mug are wagglin’ fierce. 

His brother is impossible. “Fuck off, ya jackass.” 

“Watch yore mouth, mama’s gonna have to wash that thing out with soap.” 

//

Wes might have a point about the cursin’. The first round goes abysmal to put it mildly. But he waits until after he’s done with Harley to go vent his spleen-- 19.4. Good lord almighty, he may as well be out there on a power scooter. 

It’s vestiges of the dream he knows it is. It’s the first time he’s been back in a chute, and even waiting, his heart was erratic-- how was Harley supposed to be able to keep calm when he was a ball of panicked nerves. 

She’d done her best, all he’d asked of her, but she couldn’t help but to feed off his manic energy. At this rate, this gamble back into the rodeo world is going to end up costing him a pretty penny versus actually giving him something to live off for the next couple of months. 

He’s been mulling over putting in at Angel’s End more and more. Not that he particularly wants to analyze the reasons for the why of it past needing a steady income and living situation. He’s well aware of Maka Albarn-- she ain’t no ranch princess, but word around town says she ain’t too keen on his family none either. And the why of it bothers him particularly. 

The interview after round one had been draining. They asked questions about Ragnarok-- “When will we be seeing you in the bull riding arena?” 

_How about never--_ “I’m giving myself some time.” 

“Now what happened out there tonight?”

 _Honestly--_ “It was a bad run. We’ll get out there again tomorrow.” 

“We’re just happy to be seeing you back here-- Soul Evans, everyone!” Tip of a hat, exit immediately off to the right, lament the earth's inability to swallow him whole. 

There’s commotion outside of the camper when someone ‘hup-- hups’ themselves up and over the tailgate through the camper’s open flap. This is followed by a huff onto the mattress and a, “Thought I’d find you here.” The warnings in his head all say the same thing, ignore ‘im. “Wallowin’”

Soul nudges the hat brim up with his hand to confirm that Wes is observing him from a Burt Reynolds on a bear skin position only a foot away. “Get lost.”

“Wanna talk about it?” he says, ignoring Soul’s demand. 

“Not really, no.” He’d already gotten a very loud voicemail from Pat wondering just what in the hell he'd been doing out there.

“Suit yourself.” There’s more rustling and Soul is about to let him have it when Wes pipes up again. “You know, maybe you should just hum your favorite tune tomorrow night, Spitfire.” 

The sound of grinding enamel is loud in his skull. “Don’t you have some place else to be?” 

Wes stretches, yawning lazily and scratches his balls. “Nah, ‘Lizbeth couldn’t make it so I may as well share your bed since we all know your pussy stayed ho-OME--” Soul’s boot comes down hard on Wes’ stomach “--Mother of mercy! Damn, you’re touchy little brother. Christ, I meant the _cat_.” 

“I know what you meant, you ass of an ass.” Soul smirks, trying to regain his previously comfortable position while Wes’ words percolate through his brain matter. “Why hummin’?” he asks, against his better judgement.

“‘Cause you think too much, little brother,” Wes chides. “I’m serious, you know what yer doing. Hell-- that horse can do it for you-- you just gotta get outta that head of yore’s long enough to stay outta yer own way. ” 

Soul’s face goes through a series of spasms under the hat where he wants to retaliate, except somewhere deep down inside that little voice of reason thinks Wes might have a point. And it may be the only time he’s had one. He pushes his hat out of his face quietly just in time to see Wes wiping away at his eyes like he’s gotten dirt in ‘em. “Yeah alright,” he says, trying to pretend he hasn’t just caught his big brother in a moment of emotion. “That yer secret then? Always humming when you’re riding something.”

It’s the wrong choice of words, and he knows it if the giant smirk plastered to Wes’ face is any indication-- except his brother needs humor. “You know it.” Another lazy stretch. “Good lord, if it isn’t hotter than a--”

“Shut your fucking mouth and don’t finish that euphemism,” Soul threatens, second boot at the ready. “It’s bad enough when pops does it. Y’all just can’t be contained.”

The silence stretches out between them, if the hollerin' of crickets and katydids can be called silence and even that will be gone come first frost. 

“What do you think you’ll be doing this winter? You aren’t thinking of living out of this camper for the rest of your life,” Wes comments quietly. “Liz mentioned there’s rumors Angel’s End is hiring…” 

Soul doesn’t want to go there. Any place but there.

“I hear Spirit Albarn’s daughter is a looker,” he continues when Soul doesn’t speak up. 

He takes a rather long breath and releases it in a drawn out sigh. “Wouldn’t know.” Actually, he does know. His horses personality might even match that woman's fiery disposition. And what that thought tingles the back of his neck is anyone's guess. 

“Yeah, not my cuppa though.” Wes's bluntness derails his train of thought.

 _‘Course not._ “I’m tired Wes.” Tone clear that the topic is closed. “I’ll let you know how the hummin’ goes. Night.” 

//

The humming helped on the second round. At least he’d cut his time by more than half but 7.0 still wasn’t what he wanted.

Humming around a piggin’ string ain't no simple feat. Harley’s backed into the right corner of the chute, ears perked and trained at the calf holding pen, she’s practically vibrating like a cat ready to pounce on a fat mouse. 

Heart still hammering, he’s thinking hard about the song, at the high note of the verse the gate opens and Harley rips out of the chute like he’s popped the clutch of a monstrous dirt bike. 

With deep even breaths, the rope circles once. Twice. Then flies true wrapping around the calf's neck. 

The familiar sound of Harley’s hooves in the arena sand stop, sand arching away from her as she draws back, he’s already kicking his left leg over the saddle. Wide brim of his hat shielding his eyes against the glare of the arena spotlights. His boot hits the sand and he does a crow hop to get his other foot out of the stirrup, Harley is applying resistance walking backwards. Both of his hands run along the rope, eyes firmly on the calf. Jaw clamped tight around the piggin' string. His right hand reaches the rope around the neck, his left grabs the calf’s stifle and rocks it back into his hips, dropping the young thing. Harley stops keeping the rope taut. Even before the little guy hits the ground, Soul’s right hand has snagged the front leg. He spits the piggin' string into his left. Secure front leg, twist twist twist up the back leg-- _done!_

Careful quick walk back to Harley, ticking off the six seconds the calf needs to stay down, he doesn’t want to know. He’s not sure he can look. It felt-- _fast_. When his ass hits the saddle, Harley takes a step forward, relaxing the tension on the line. Only then does he look up, the sounds of the arena loud in his ears. Shit-- he’s done it. 

6.11

// 

It’s getting colder out. Each new morning he wakes, warring with his pride. It’s no secret what Maka Albarn thinks of his family, hell the whole community probably agrees with her. Sellout has become synonymous with _Evans._ Anyhow beggars can’t be choosers, so he tamps down the guilt-- hand running across his chest.

He knows the turn off to the ranch, but he still needs deep breath as he swallows his slice of humble pie. 

The sheriff has agreed to watch him rope on account that Pat had highly recommended him to the ranch manager, a one, Mrs. Sue Strickland. It was she, he’d spoken with two nights ago and they’d set the trial date for today. 

He may have arrived just a touch early, but one never knows with these types of things. The bald faced, bay gelding comes out of the middle run to inspect things as Soul tacks up Harley at the side of the trailer. So, at 8am sharp, he rides towards the covered porch as the sheriff exits the house. 

“Howdy, there Soul.” The tone is polite, but Soul senses the underlying annoyance. Boy howdy indeed, this isn’t going to be fun if none of these here people want him around. 

“Sir,” he says, dipping his hat. 

“Pat mentioned you picked up that mare earlier this year,” Sheriff Albarn says, extending a hand towards Harley's muzzle. The warning Soul is about to give dies on his lips when Harley nicker’s excitedly and, to Soul’s bewilderment, nuzzles into Spirit’s outstretched hand and allows him to scratch her forehead. To his befuddled expression, the sheriff says, “I know my way around the ladies.” 

Soul’s mouth turns down at the corners, a shovel faced grimace but keeps mum as Harley follows the man out to a corral with a number of calves. "Traitor," he mutters, but she only tosses her head.

“Alrighty then son, show me whatcha got.” His demeanor makes it clear he is only doing this to appease his ranch manager who has joined them at the fence with only a green scarf and house sweater to guard against the cold chill. 

It’s nothing they haven’t done before. Spirit calls out which calves he wants separated and soul hooks them clean. The interview doesn’t last past the fifth calf. “You’re hired. I’m sure Sue talked to you about the position and the fact it doesn’t pay much.” The sheriff’s face tightents. “But room and board are included as well as meals. Guest house is that’a way. Sue can show you around and get you fixed up.”

“What, like right now?” Soul asks.

"Yes, right now." Spirit runs a hand through his fiery red hair. “I mean unless you got some things you need to tie up?"

Huh, not really, other than releasing his lease on the run where he’s been boarding Harley. “Nope.” 

“Okay then, welcome aboard, Evans.” His teeth grind together, but he nods in acknowledgement. “You can park your horse trailer out by the others. How about you take it from here, Sue,” he says to the woman. "I have to head to the station." 

“Sure thing, boss.” The woman gives him a winning smile. “C’mon you, trucks are parked out front here. The house is furnished but you’re welcome to move in your own bed and belongings if you like.” 

“That won’t be an issue, ma’am.” Harley nickers in the direction of Spirit. “And what about my horse?” 

Sue Strickland, puts a hand on her waist and inclines her head to the barn. “First run is all hers. Welcome to Angel’s End.” 

“‘Preciate that.” The grin is genuine. It feels good to be back on a ranch to feel like he has purpose again. 

After a quick tour of the grounds, Sue deposits him back at the guest house and let's him know Mifune will be by later to show him the ropes. Lunch is at noon. 

It’s odd walking into the small guest house after months of living in the back of the truck, it feels maybe too open but it also, sort of, feels kind of like home. There’s a soft touch to the décor, like every piece was hand selected by someone who’d absolutely loved the place. His only pressing complaint might be that the front door is situated on the north side of the building-- given their harsh ice storms this seems like a bizarre choice, but maybe the guest house was here long before. Still though. 

Turns out they hired him mid-winter without the boss’s daughter's knowledge.


End file.
